Prince of Summerhall
by CloudyDream
Summary: In the eleventh year of the reign of Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, a servant of the God of Light came from the East and a young prince started dreaming of blood and revenge. Or, an AU in which Viserys might, or might not, be mad, but Tyrion surely is lot's of fun to be around. You might be thinking Hamlet and you'll be totally, maybe, kinda right. WIP, check it out!


**A/N**: From a semi-prompt over at TvTropes, discussing why didn't anyone off Aerys before he could do that much damage. The prompt? _An Alternate Universe retelling of Hamlet with the Ghost being Aerys, Claudius being Rhaegar and Viserys being Hamlet. _Now you tell me, isn't this the most awesomest thing since sliced bread? Yes? Thought so!

So here's my version of the prompt, an AU where Aerys was offed shortly after the Harrenhal tournament, and the story takes place about five years before AGOT begins. If you haven't read _Hamlet_, thing _The Lion King_. If you _have_ read _Hamlet_, and have no desire whatsoever to read a story in which everyone's gonna end up dead, then maybe George Martin isn't your thing. Also, don't worry because I'm not going to stick _that_ closely to the original story. It's just a general, if amazingly awesome, guideline. Please help me to make the story at the best it can be, at least half as awesome as the prompt – leave constructive feedback. Thank you.

* * *

**Prince of Summerhall**

_If there be any good thing to be done,  
That may to thee do ease and grace to me,  
Speak to me  
Hamlet, Act I, Scene I_

* * *

King's Landing was every part as Tyrion Lannister remembered it.

His visits to the city were few and far in between, his brother's role as a Knight of the Kingsguard not a sufficient excuse for his Lord Father to allow him to visit. Even though Lord Tywin often took part to the feasts and celebration of the court, always making sure to bring his daughter along, Tyrion himself was always left at the Rock, getting drunker and drunker every time.

The last time he'd come to the city he had been ten-and-four, his father still angered enough by Tyrion's adventure with Tysha that he'd forbidden Jaime to come and visit his family at Castelry Rock. _This is how you respect your family, ser_, Lord Tywin had written his eldest son, _by caring more about the safety of peasants than your own blood's_. His words to Tyrion had been less pleasant, something about monsters and bastards and gold-digging whores, but Tyrion hadn't paid much attention, too excited by the idea of going to King's Landing. _His Grace was most kind_, Jaime had written back to his father, _and kindly invited my brother and sister and his brother Prince Viserys to attend his name day tournament_.

Tyrion remembered being ecstatic at the prospect, and his father cold fury at being outmatched by Jaime, and Viserys's own enthusiasm. _You've never seen a tournament in King's Landing, haven't you? It's nothing like what you have here in the West_. They'd been in the city for a fortnight when _it_ happened, and Tyrion had not talked to his brother for years. Even now they weren't as close as they used to be, and he had not come to King's Landing ever since.  
This time, though, it was different. This time, Tyrion Lannister was here to stay.

The city itself was exactly as it had been four years ago, with its colours and his sounds and the warm, pulsing breath of thousands souls all in the same place. It even smelled the same, the good parts and the bad, and the winds coming from the East carried the scent of sea and salt to his face.

The sea and the wind made the air King's Landing slightly fresher than it had been in Casterly Rock, and Tyrion couldn't help but being grateful. It had been summer even the last time he'd been in the city, he remembered suddenly, the same summer. He wondered absent-mindedly how long it would last, and how long the winter after would be, before deciding he didn't care.

He had other things on his mind.

* * *

The rooms Tyrion had been assigned in the Red Keep were nowhere as grand as the ones in Casterly Rock were, but there was no Tywin Lannister on the same floor, which Tyrion considered to be a huge improvement. Not even the obvious glances of the young maid who was showing him around could ruin his good mood today.

"Listen," he spoke up, and the girl startled. "What's your name?"

"Mella," and then, remembering whom she was talking to, she hastily added, "m'lord."

She looked young and fresh, if not pretty, and she sounded curious. Curious wasn't bad – it was still better than scared and a far cry from the subservience of the people at Casterly Rock, who had all seen Lord Lannister's scorn for his youngest son and would never respect him like they did his father.

"Mella," he said. "If you want to look at me, do it. None of these half-looks, it's driving me mad."

His voice was perhaps too harsh but Mella didn't seem to mind the tone as much as she did the words, because nodded and blushed – and Tyrion couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a woman, or a girl, blush. Tysha had probably been that last, and he forced himself to think of something else instead of dwelling too long on useless matters.

"Where's the prince," he asked, "do you know? Seeing as he was the one who had me invited here is terribly rude of him not to greet his guest."

Mella's skin turned an even deeper shade of pink. "I wouldn't know, m'lord. Of being rude. And where the prince is – you mean Prince Viserys, don't you, m'lord? In the yard, or in his quarters, but I'm sure he will come as soon as he can."

Tyrion had to suppress a chuckle. "You are sure." He stifled another laugh. "Thank you."

It was a few moments before the girl realized she'd been dismissed, and this time she turned almost red before curtsying and leaving. Tyrion himself didn't remain in the rooms much longer – he was in Red Keep for the first time in four years, and there were more appealing things to do than remaining in his quarters waiting on a prince's whim.  
Besides, Viserys would know exactly where he was.

* * *

When Rhaegar Targaryen had become king, the dragons skull that had adorned the walls of the throne room had been taken away and replaced with tapestries. All but three, the dragons belonging to Aegon the Conqueror and his two sisters, and there was who had seen in this King Rhaegar denying his own blood. Others had rejoiced – they finally had a king who showed more respect to his Lords and subjects than he did to his Valyrian ancestors – and others had not cared at all.

_It looks better this way_, Viserys had told Tyrion the last time they were both in the Keep. _Three big skulls are more impressive than three big skull and fifteen smaller ones_. Tyrion had laughed and took another sip of Dornish wine, and asked the prince were the other skulls were. Then he went looking for them.

This time, he didn't need to ask Viserys for directions. He remembered the way around better than he did in Casterly Rock, and the dragons were exactly where he'd left them, still black and majestic and so uncannily beautiful.

The ones in the throne room might be bigger, Tyrion thought, but they were mounted on their supports and distant; these ones, Tyrion could _touch_, trace the contours with his fingers, warm against the bone. There was dust on them, he noticed surprised, before realizing, _of course_ there was dust, whoever would want to come clean up a dragon's skull? He tried to imagine blushing young Mella surrounded by black dragons' bones, and had to stifle back a snicker. It felt wrong to laugh in this place, almost like a sin.

Then he found himself wondering if anyone ever dusted the skulls in the throne room and _of course_ someone had to, it was the _throne room_, and that was why Rhaegar had the skulls taken away, to please his servants, and that sounded so much like something he could imagine Rhaegar doing that Tyrion started laughing. It was the most fun he'd had since the time Lord Tywin Lannister had missed a step on the stairs and fell.

"Few people would laugh in here"

The voice startled him, and he boggled, then turned.

"Who are you?"

The speaker had been a woman, Tyrion noticed, a woman who was every bit as beautiful as every lady he'd ever met, if not more, tall and slender, her skin pale under the light of the torches.

"Melisandre of Asshai," the woman said, and Tyrion could feel the smile in her voice, the self-assurance of a woman who knew to be making an impression, and he felt compelled to discourage her conviction as much as he could.

"Well then, Melisandre of Asshai," Tyrion said, and he could have sworn to have seen the faintest flick of surprise on that beautiful face. "What brings you here on this beautiful day?"

"I am a servant of the Lord of Light," the surprise hadn't lasted more than a moment. _This woman could give Cersei lessons in manners_. "And I go where he leads me."

"Does that include the cellars of the Red Keep, my lady?" The only _servant of the Lord of Light_ Tyrion had ever known was Thoros of Myr, and he was much too like Tyrion himself than a holy man. He wondered how long this woman had been at court, and why he hadn't heard anything about her.

Tyrion was looking at her and waiting for an answer, eyebrow raised the way he knew his sister hated, and the woman rewarded him with a half-smile.

"On some days, it does."

Melisandre walked past him, moving closer to the skulls, the ones that gave Tyrion shivers every time he looked at them. The two smallest dragons, the misshaped ones.

"And what about you, Tyrion Lannister." She trailed one slender finger on the black bones, up and down and up again. "What brings you here?"

Tyrion shrugged, maybe too much. "Oh, the view. Lovely."

"Indeed." She started walking again, moving closer to the other skulls and passing under the torches. Her vests was as red as Thoros's, and her hair was red as well, shining like copper under the light.

"Don't you feel it, Tyrion Lannister?"

Her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her, Tyrion decided, a voice fit for a sultry bedroom and wasted on a lady, and he shivered.

"Feel what?" His voice was shacking. He _hated_ that his voice was shacking.

"Feel _it_." Her voice was still beautiful, but softer, and Tyrion had to move closer to hear. "It was a man and now it's not, and the Lord won't let me see it in my flames. It is angry, Tyrion Lannister, angry and mad, and it is _here_."

She was almost whispering on that last word, and Tyrion let out a long, trembling laugh.

"Either I am drunk, my lady, or you are, and in both cases I would really like to invite you to my quarters, but sadly I am expected." He gave a last look around the room, the skulls flickering under the lights and the red woman grasping her own hands, her mouth a thin line.

"Have a good day," he added, sincerely meaning it for what was probably the first time in years. Then he took a deep breath, turned around and started walking.

By the time Tyrion had reached the stairs, he was running.


End file.
